


do not stand at my grave and cry

by idontknowhowtoread (heatherpotts)



Category: PBG Hardcore
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Ghost Shenanigans, M/M, a bitch going thru a lot recently not gonna lie, also a lot of vague worldbuilding shit to justify it... dont even worry bout it, bc i really go on about how ~real~ it all is fhgfgd, i dont care that hardcore is kinda dead rn, im really out here posting everything but beyond the sea huh...., mostly platonic but. i guess spacebutter if you really squint, sad bitch hours!, set near the end of mc5 so yeah. spoilers obv, shout out to mary elizabeth frye you funky little poet, you really gotta suspend ur disbelief that this is minecraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:07:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherpotts/pseuds/idontknowhowtoread
Summary: Jeff had heard a poem, a long time ago. But remembering it now, he hears it in his head in a voice different than his own."Do not stand at my grave and cry;I am not there. I did not die."-Mary Elizabeth Frye, 1932.





	do not stand at my grave and cry

To Jeff, the graves have always been more than just graves.

 

He's alone in this world now, faced with an insurmountable task and everything he held dear ripped away from him. The graves are effectively his friends' replacements, what was left of their bodies, and more often than not, _only_ their _memories_ buried beneath stone crosses.

 

Jeff didn't have time to bring back Austin's body, only panickily scrambling for his items before running home, because he couldn't die there too, _not like this._ Now, he feels almost cursed for that choice, for who he left behind. Those items are all that he has left of Austin here, his weakened tools, his blast damaged armor, and all the blocks he held onto for no good reason.

 

Jeff needed everything he could scrounge up, so nothing of Austin's was buried. Not even the memory, which haunted Jeff day and night.

 

He hates Austin's grave. Not only because of the memory, not in the same way he hates all the other memorials. They're sad, but they're reminders, motivation; to not make the same mistakes, to remember them and do what they couldn't, to kill _that stupid dragon_ and _do it for them._

 

Looking at Austin's grave, all Jeff feels is hopeless.

 

He built the _goddamn_ thing himself, but he still sees the structure as a mockery. Of Austin, or of himself, he isn't sure.

 

He remembered remarking that it was disturbing as he built the cross, and he laughed because that was _all he knew how to do._ But every day now, seeing it from afar or in his memory, even his _dreams_ , it looks _wrong_. The soul sand column, phantom faces etched into the gritty texture, is _wrong._ He used to wonder if it really housed any lost souls, if he had trapped Austin's.

 

Another part of himself that he couldn't quite locate knew that Austin's soul wasn't there.

 

Pink wool as the cross, pitifully tacked on. A curse of their own making, because it was the only way to make it all make sense. He shouldn't have memorialized _the stupid sheep,_ the other graves told of their dead's achievements and personalities, while all Austin got was his how his life was taken, unfair and inexplicable. He deserved better, in both life and death. If anything was trapping and cursing his soul, it was the wool on his grave.

 

But that strange voice returns again. _Austin isn't there._

 

Standing here, before his grave, agonizingly close to leaving on his last, big adventure but held back by his thoughts, he remembers a poem.

 

He heard it a long time ago, he thinks. Out of the game, most likely, maybe even before all this started.

 

_Do not stand at my grave and weep_

_I am not there; I do not sleep._

 

He doesn't remember memorizing it. Then again, the voice in his head is _not exactly_ his own.

 

He looks up at the center of the cross, and his bottom lip quivers. His eyes sting, but it has to be from the sun, as harsh as ever. He absolutely despises the alternative.

 

_I am a thousand winds that blow,_

_I am the diamond glints on snow,_

 

The slightest breeze upon that line makes him shiver. He turns, pacing in front of the graves, up and down the aisle as if awaiting judgement from his fallen friends. This game, _damn it all,_ feels much too real in so many ways. The pain is always real, from jumping from too high and hurting his ankles, from hunger, from fighting mobs and the ever present _emotional_ , it drives him _insane_. But what fosters that pain, that feeling and every other, like the rare happiness and music and lighthearted conversation, is the world itself; so painstakingly detailed. Real.

 

Every blade of grass, every leaf, every flower and every pebble upturned from an explosion, all feel so detailed and textured, _real_. If he remembered what the wild was like out of the game, he had to assume it was like this. Every sunbeam, every shadow, through torchlight and moonlight tells him that this is hardly a game, an alternate reality. He doesn't remember the context of the poem, or really much of _anything_ outside of the game, but he finds that here, it still holds true. This world, albeit now empty and cold and filled with evil, is beautiful; in a way that only Austin's memory could preserve.

 

_I am the sun on ripened grain,_

_I am the gentle autumn rain._

 

His gaze falls to the ground as he paces, gravelly dirt and loose grass beneath his feet. How it shifts under his weight, how it crunches beneath his steps, how the blades of grass catch the late morning light. Clinging to the blades are tiny drops of dew, shining in the light. He can't remember if it rained last night, or the day before. Maybe he cried his eyes out recently and forgot about it, flooding the fields. Maybe it was the ghosts. Maybe it was Austin.

 

_When you awaken in the morning's hush,_

_I am the swift uplifting rush_

_Of quiet birds in circled flight._

_I am the soft stars that shine at night._

 

Jeff can't remember the last time he stargazed. They're just as detailed here, just as pretty, just as _real;_ but with this adventure, he just hasn't had the time. Maybe he will tonight, assuming he finally sets off in search of the End, and maybe if he has a death wish.

 

This game has a way of taking everything from you, making the goal your final and only priority. He used to love the stars. He used to know the constellations, at least a couple. Space used to fascinate him, but now he can barely remember any planets other than Earth. They don't matter here.

 

He used to love the stars. Somewhere, deep down, he still does, he's sure. It's just that rediscovering that fascination will be difficult. Countless old, half forgotten adorations race through his mind now. He loved adventure, he loved these games, he loved the escape from the real world and forgetting everything but their goal. He loved savoring the little moments with his friends, mining together, making their house a home for the one moment it lasted, sharing pork chops over grassy fields and feeling _safe._

 

He loved Austin. He loved all of them.

 

Maybe all has been taken from him, but all is not lost. Maybe he hasn't been taken from them. Maybe they're watching from somewhere, from the clouds and the sunbeams and the drops of dew, from the blades of grass and the flowers and the old, nearly broken tools that he holds close to his chest. His chances of winning are slim, and he knows, but maybe they're cheering him on from somewhere.

 

This game must have really taken everything from him, even his sanity, because he swears he can feel the sunlight wrap around him and warm him as he stops in front of Austin's grave, cool drops of dew against his skin that aren't really there, phantom arms around his waist.

 

This game has taken _almost_ everything from him, but not yet his ability to replace it. If he was hallucinating, or if somehow, Austin was really there, in the gentle breezes and the glints of sunlight on Jeff's iron armor and his tools, he wasn't sure. He hadn't thought about it before, but he really, _really_ needed a hug.

 

This game would be over soon, for better or for worse. Maybe this was the last push he needed to go on, the veil pierced, the dead lively once more, words unspoken but _felt_ , ringing loud and clear in Jeff's mind.

 

_Do not stand at my grave and cry,_

_I am not there; I did not die._

 


End file.
